Singing the bake sale blues

I’m a full-out disaster in the kitchen. The Long Suffering Husband gave me the “Great Big Illustrated So You Can’t Mess Up Cookbook” – 1,000 recipes and 3,000 pictures – on the occasion of our first Christmas together.

I don’t have that many signature recipes. I’ve got maybe three dishes that people actually ask me how I make – pulled pork with homemade barbecue sauce, baked beans with bacon and pumpkin muffins. After roughly 16 years in the kitchen, I can make three things; pathetic. However, I know the muffins are good, because I’ve fed them to the Sassy Saint’s friends, and they’re still alive.

So, when the Little Professor’s Boy Scout Troop sent out the call for items for a bake sale, I had two choices: buy something at the bakery or make pumpkin muffins. In retrospect, I probably should have hit up Gus’s Goodies. Everyone would have known it wasn’t mine, but it would’ve been less stressful.

I got up early the day of the sale, so the muffins would be as fresh as possible. The Little Professor was my assistant chef, so we got flour all over the kitchen, but that was OK, since we were making memories (and muffins).

It wasn’t OK that we took longer than I originally anticipated. Things always take longer than I anticipate, which causes me to be late everywhere. I’m so notorious for it that my mother doesn’t think twice about lying to me about when things start. She’ll tell me a half hour, an hour before we’re actually supposed to be there.

However, for once, we weren’t late, but only because I moved my schedule around at the last moment. Because I had to work and the LSH hadn’t been to the bake sale site before, we caravanned, and he followed me.

Traffic was awful, but this actually wasn’t as bad as you’d think, because 1) we managed to be on time, anyway, and 2) my Sassy Saint used it as an opportunity to hawk baked goods to people stuck in traffic. She was literally grabbing trays of baked goods, weaving between cars, rapping on windows and making gobs of money for the Boy Scouts. She managed to sell 50-plus cupcakes. It was a good thing I was at work, because the idea of Sass out in traffic gives me vapors.

So, we managed to get there on time and with the baked goods. It was too perfect; I should’ve know it couldn’t last. It didn’t.

Sass was crossing the parking lot, carrying my beloved muffins in my one-and-only cake carrier. She tripped over nothing, the container sailed majestically up, muffins tumbling through the air to splat ignominiously on the concrete. Then, my cake carrier rolled under a car tire and was promptly crunched.

I could have wept.

“I spent all morning making those!” I vented.

“I know,” the LSH soothed. “She feels really bad.”

It’s OK, though. There will be other bake sales. I can buy another cake carrier. I can make more muffins. But there is only one Sassy Saint.

Thank goodness for small favors.

(Wallace-Minger, a resident of Weirton, is community editor of The Weirton Daily Times.)